


breathe in

by atleastwestoletheshow (Silverwolf329)



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-23 15:17:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23379895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverwolf329/pseuds/atleastwestoletheshow
Summary: Firebending comes from the breath. A master's breath is always controlled.Zuko is not a master. He's not.
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Mai & Zuko (Avatar), Piandao & Zuko (Avatar), Ty Lee & Zuko (Avatar), Ursa & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 917
Collections: A:tla, Finished111





	breathe in

Zuko lights his first flame at seven years old, a year after Azula.

He can barely tear his eyes from the flickering fire in his hand, a little heartbeat that thrums in time with his breath. 

In, and the flame flickers cheerfully, pushing up to the sun. Out, and it wanes, tip wavering like a little goodbye.

He can’t help but let out a little laugh, giddy at the prospect of beginning to train, being able to encourage the little life to grow bigger and hotter, to shoot out from his hands on commands, to light up the room with nothing but his breath and his chi.

He doesn’t see his father, at the edge of the courtyard, a blank stare on his face, but he does see his mother’s smile, and he thinks this may be the day when his luck begins.

* * *

“Your kick is still too low.”

Zuko bites his lip to hold back a cry as Instructor Huang pushes down on his shoulders, forcing him into a full split. His inner thighs burn like molten fire, and his arms tremble with the effort it takes not to fight back.

It _hurts._ It hurts, but he can’t kick as high or gracefully as Azula, who’s had a year more of training and a lifetime more of luck. If he wants to be worthy of being the Fire Lord’s firstborn son, he needs to do this.

He takes a deep breath. Then another. Then another. Just one more breath, he tells himself. Just one more, and he will let me up. Just one more. Then again, just one more.

He counts out seventeen more breaths before the pressure on his shoulders lets up.

It takes him three breaths to force his legs to bend underneath him and stand. When he finally does, Huang nods at him, perfunctory. It’s not a _well done,_ but it’s close enough, and Zuko suppresses a shaky smile.

“Show me Swooping Falcon again.”

* * *

Zuko blows a strand of hair out of his eyes as his mother brushes it in soft, even strokes.

“Why can’t I just cut it off,” he whines. “It gets in my eyes and sticks to my neck when I train.”

Zuko’s mother hums, detangling a knot with her fingers. “You know how important it is for the royal family to keep our hair long, Zuko. It’s tradition.”

Zuko huffs. “I hate tradition. It’s dumb and nobody will tell me why.”

Her fingers pause for a moment. “A long time ago, long hair was considered a status symbol for a firebender. When we lived in tribes, the most powerful chiefs had the longest hair, because their enemies couldn’t get close enough to burn it off. More importantly, though, it was long because the chiefs had enough control over their own fire. When we became a nation, the most powerful chief became the leader, of course. And as long as he kept his power and his hair, he remained the ruler.”

She pulls a lock to the side and mimes setting it aflame with a dramatic _whoosh_. “That is, of course, assuming they didn’t burn their own hair off first!”

* * *

Zuko blinks tears out of his eyes as the burn on his arm throbs with his heartbeat.

Instructor Lai examines it for a bare second before straightening. “You cannot be _gentle_ with flame. Our element needs to be controlled with an iron hand. Let your control slip, and you will be burned.”

Zuko nods his understanding, chewing on his lip.

Lai studies him closely, before clasping his hands behind his back. “Light a flame.”

Zuko does so. It pulses with his breath. In, hello, out, goodbye.

“It wavers because you lack control,” Lai says, and lights a flame of his own. It stays still and quiet, as if it barely dares to flicker, let alone dance. “Your flame needs to be steady. You cannot be a candle and melt under your own fire.”

He closes his fist and the fire snuffs out, a trail of smoke like a restless spirit trailing to the ceiling. “Practice tonight,” Lai says, dusting the ash off his hand. “I expect to see a steady flame tomorrow.”

* * *

Zuko is nine years old when he picks up a sword for the first time.

It’s a wooden training sword, but it’s perfectly balanced, the grip polished by dozens of students and years of use. His fingers trace the grooves on the hilt, the chips on the blade from countless collisions, and he can’t stop the grin that spreads over his face as he clasps the grip and it feels like it was molded just for him.

Fat walks him through a set of rudimentary exercises. Inhale, then lunge, then exhale, then parry. Do not forget your breath. It is a swordsman’s greatest weapon, and his greatest weakness.

Inhale, then lunge, then exhale, then parry. Do not forget to breathe.

When the exercise ends, Fat turns to the balcony and bows shallowly. Zuko copies, a shade slower. His hair is damp with sweat and his breath is coming heavier, but it is slow and even as his heart beats a rabbit-mouse’s pace in his chest.

When he looks up, Master Piandao is not quite smiling, but his eyes are shining. Uncle Iroh is beaming.

* * *

Zuko grunts as his shoulder crashes to the training room floor, adding another bruise to his impressive collection.

“You hesitated again,” Instructor Zhou bites, straightening from the crouch he landed in as he threw Zuko to the floor. “Fire is the element of aggression. You cannot wait for the perfect moment, because there is no perfect moment. You must attack, or you will be attacked.”

Zuko nods, rolling his shoulder.

“Again,” Zhou orders, leaping forward before the word is even finished.

Zuko takes a breath, then brings his arm forward to block the fire streaming towards him.

* * *

The dual dao swords are a thing of beauty.

Practicing the dual dao is the only time that Zuko ever feels like he’s at home, comfortable in his skin. He knows where his arms end, where his swords end, in a way that the flowing nature of fire won’t allow.

His arms burn as he swings, once, twice, three times, a sharp breath out at every impact on the training dummy.

Piandao’s hand on his shoulder stops a fourth swing, and he spins, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

“I can keep going,” he pants.

Piandao holds out an ice cold glass of water, condensation spilling onto his weathered hands.

“I’m sure you can,” he says, measured and calm as he always is. “But you shouldn’t. Take a breath, Prince Zuko.”

Zuko squints for a moment, before he takes the offering. “Why? I need to train as hard as I can, so I can be the best.”

“Is that what your firebending instructors tell you?” Piandao asks, plucking the swords from Zuko’s now-lax grip.

Zuko doesn’t answer, sipping at the water. Sip, inhale. Sip, exhale.

“Remember our most important lesson, Prince Zuko. You and the swords are one.” Piandao pauses and waits for Zuko’s nod before continuing. “With every swing, you blunt the blade. If you swing too hard, or at the wrong thing, you chip the blade. If you do not take the time to maintain and repair your weapons, eventually, they will break.”

Piandao folds himself to sit, lotus-style, on the training ground floor, sheathing the swords in one fluid motion. Zuko follows, suppressing a wince as he puts his weight on his left hand and his wrist protests. Piandao’s sharp eye isn’t fooled, and he reaches a hand out without a word. Zuko surrenders his wrist quietly, used to this ritual by now.

Piandao rolls the wrist gently, watching Zuko’s expression closely. Apparently satisfied that nothing is seriously injured, he calls for Fat to bring him a roll of bandages.

“Your body is the same,” he continues, as if the conversation had never paused. “Like you must sharpen and wax your blades, you must give your body fuel and rest. A pair of good blades is hard to replace. A body is impossible.”

He stretches the bandage and begins wrapping Zuko’s wrist, fingers deft and practiced. Zuko exhales three times before Piandao ties off the bandage and speaks again. “A hot bath and a good cup of tea don’t hurt, either.”

Zuko snorts. “You sound like Uncle.”

Piandao’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “Is that so.”

“Just add some pai sho, and you’ve got Uncle’s perfect day,” Zuko says, picking at the bandage.

Piandao rises and holds out a hand, pulling Zuko to his feet. “I think we should give this wrist at least a day’s worth of rest. A bit of calligraphy and tea sounds good, don’t you think?”

Zuko sighs, but follows closely. Piandao makes really good tea.

* * *

“You not only take my son to a swordsman, when he should be focusing on his pathetic bending, but you take him to a traitor?” Ozai’s voice is like poison, a thick sludge that blankets the throne room. Zuko keeps his eyes firmly trained on the hands in his lap. Inhale, exhale.

“Peace, brother,” Uncle says, calming in the way only he knows how. “A growing boy should have many interests. A saber-moose in a barren cage is no predator.”

“Spare me your sayings,” Ozai spits. The flames in front of the dais creep higher and hotter, like embers on burnt-out wood. “There will be no more sword lessons for him. He needs to master firebending before he can even think of having a hobby.”

Zuko’s eyes remain dry even has his fingernails bite into his palms. Ozai’s attention turns to him, sharp and unmistakable.

“You will focus on what’s important, not playing with knives like a child. Do you understand, Zuko?”

Zuko bows, pressing his head on the floor. It’s warm from the fire, but it still leeches warmth from his forehead. “Yes, father,” he says, straightening. “I will devote myself to firebending.”

Ozai lets out a short, sharp breath. The fire continues to creep steadily hotter. “See that you do. Dismissed.”

Zuko bows again and rises, following a half step behind Uncle out of the throne room. As the door closes, warm hands clasp around his shoulders.

“It will be okay, Prince Zuko,” Iroh murmurs. Zuko nods, blinking back the tears that are threatening to escape. “Go find your mother.”

His mom is in the courtyard, feeding the turtleducks. She does not comment on his red-rimmed eyes, just holds out an arm in invitation. Zuko nestles himself in her side, feeling her ribs rise and fall with each quiet breath.

When he returns to his rooms that night, the dual dao swords that he had left at Master Piandao’s are resting on his bed. A note in Master Piandao’s neat kanji rests on top. _Take a breath._

Zuko stands at the foot of his bed, holding the swords tight against his chest, and he breathes.

* * *

This is Zuko’s routine: he rises with the sun, and has a quiet breakfast with his mother. He trains for four hours with Instructor Mu. He takes half an hour for lunch, then studies under Tutor Yang for four hours. Then, he returns to Instructor Mu for two more hours, has a tense dinner with his family, and then meets Uncle Iroh for an hour. Sometimes they meditate. Sometimes they play Pai Sho. Sometimes Uncle talks and Zuko listens, but mostly Zuko talks and Uncle listens.

At sundown, Zuko returns to his room and goes to sleep. When the shuffle of the servants outside his door quiets, he wakes, pries the loose floorboard under his bed open, and runs forms with his dao until his overtired muscles scream. He returns to bed, sweaty and filled with adrenaline, and dozes until the sun rises again.

Then, one day, when the conversation has tapered down for a moment and Zuko is contemplating where to place his white dragon tile, Uncle mentions a war meeting.

* * *

It’s all Zuko can do to keep breathing as Uncle peels back the layer of bandages, exposing raw nerves to the salty ocean air that has penetrated even the lower decks of the ship.

Uncle is as gentle as he can be, dabbing salve on with a steady hand and rewrapping the bandage in quick, economic movements. Still Zuko can’t stop the tears that escape from his good eye, or the frantic, futile clenching of his hands in the silk sheets of his bed.

He clamps his teeth together as his breath whistles through them. In, as he blinks and a fresh wave of agony lances from his eye to the back of his head. Out, as the bandage presses to his skin and brushes the exposed nerves, once again setting fire to his face.

“I’m sorry, Prince Zuko,” Uncle whispers in the aftermath, holding Zuko as he shakes apart in the safety of the tiny cabin. The candles on the desk flicker with his ragged, gulping breaths.

“I’m sorry,” Uncle whispers. “I’m sorry,” like maybe if he apologizes enough he can fix it. “I’m sorry,” like there’s more that he’s apologizing for. “I’m sorry,” because there’s nothing else he can say.

Zuko sits in the warmth of his arms and breathes. In, I’m sorry, out, I’m sorry.

* * *

Zuko is fourteen when he firebends for the first time After without breaking down.

He still flinches from the heat, and he only bends from his right hand, and he holds his breath until the fire dissipates, but it’s a start.

In time, with gentle coaxing from Uncle, he bends with his left hand again. In time, he stops flinching so hard when fire approaches his left side, until it becomes more of a twitch and a compensation.

He doesn’t stop holding his breath until the fire dissipates.

* * *

The Avatar is alive.

The Avatar is alive, and Zuko holds himself steady as a flame until he stumbles into his cabin, and then he’s choking on air.

His fingers twist in the sheets so hard that they start to creak, and the candles on the desk jump wildly, scorching the metal ceiling black with soot.

Uncle is in the doorway, catching the flame before it hits the tapestries and gently redirecting it back to the wick. “There’s no need to rush, Nephew. It could mean anything, or nothing at all.”

“No,” Zuko gasps out between ground teeth. “No, I need to do this. I need – I need-”

“What do you need, Nephew,” Uncle prompts, when Zuko gives into the wheezing, black spots dancing across his vision.

Zuko gasps again, like a dying man. “I need to go home,” he says, then gives in to the blackness at the edges of the vision and pitches forward onto the bed.

* * *

Zuko thinks he has known hunger, at the end of a four-hour training session on the lightest breakfast the cook could provide.

Zuko was wrong.

He lays on the raft that Uncle made and watches the puffy clouds. They wave cheerfully at him as they float by.

Uncle isn’t in better shape, slumped against the pathetic excuse of a mast. His lips are dry and cracked, but have long since stopped bleeding.

Zuko heaves himself up, slowly and laboriously. Every breath is a chore. When he lights a weak, sputtering fire to boil the salt off of a tinful of seawater, every chi meridian in his body burns.

“Drink, Uncle,” he rasps, breath hot and painful on his sandpaper-dry tongue.

Uncle keeps his lips clamped tightly shut until Zuko drinks half the tin himself, then relents and opens his mouth gratefully for the trickle of warm water. A drop escapes, and Zuko watches placidly as it rolls down his finger, cresting over the pinched tent of his skin.

He breathes in, and the cool air on his moist lip is like heaven.

It gusts out, hot and heavy, as he scrambles to the edge, almost tipping the raft over, breathing, “Land.”

* * *

Zuko holds his breath as he runs the knife through his hair, strands parting easily under the blade.

He lets out the breath, slowly, methodically, as he places the clump in the river and watches it float away. Beside him, Uncle radiates a steady warmth as he does the same. They kneel, not quite touching, as the river rushes on in front of them.

In, as the wind ruffles through unbound hair. Out, as Uncle rises slowly beside him, holding out a hand.

* * *

The air in Ba Sing Se is clean.

Li feels his face creasing into a light smile as he walks down the alley, vision obscured by the pot of flowers he’s carrying. It’s a bit of a struggle to get the door open, but he manages it with a bit of contortion.

“Nephew!” Uncle calls from the kitchen. “Set those down in the corner and come give me a hand!”

Li places the vase in the corner, straightening to dust his apron off and catching a fresh whiff of the carnations on the way. His steps stir up the thin layer of dust as he makes his way to the kitchen, pushing open the door to the humid smell of jasmine and lychee.

“New blend?” He asks, plucking the kettle from the stove just before it boils, pouring it over the pot of green waiting by the door.

Uncle hums, stirring something at the counter. “Everyone likes fruit, and everyone likes tea. Why not? That one goes to table eight.”

Li grins, stacking three teacups onto the platter next to the fresh pot of green. The steam wafts up gently, dampening his eyebrows and relaxing the tense muscles under his scar. He smiles when he sets the platter down, and the three women at the table giggle behind their intricate fans.

Li huffs out a laugh of his own when his back turns, clearing an empty table and collecting the coins, dropping them into the pocket of his apron. They jingle merrily as he walks.

A breeze ruffles its merry way through the open doorway, a single flower petal floating in on the wind. The fires in the kitchen, hidden where the customers can’t see, dance merrily in return, up to lick cheerfully at the sides of the kettle, down to settle the heat simmering in the water.

Iroh, hidden in the kitchen where Li can’t see, watches the fires dance and smiles.

* * *

The salt in the air at Ember Island is familiar and stifling.

Zuko’s footsteps echo down the hall, the torches in the wall guttering as he walks by. Beside him, Mai is quiet, fingers threaded lightly through his own. He matches his breaths to her shallow, even ones, in, out, in, out.

Ty Lee chatters in front of them, springing through handstands and backflips with a practiced ease and a glowing smile. She will pay for it later, Zuko knows. He has sat with her and Mai through enough rough nights, gently warming his palms on her aching joints as her breath hitches when she shifts.

Those nights, Mai will remove her knives so they don’t bite through flesh, sitting with Ty Lee and stroking her hair until the sun comes up.

For now, Azula smirks at her antics. The torches don’t move when she breezes by.

Azula tosses a smirk and a line behind her, and Mai’s fingers tighten in Zuko’s grip, and Zuko’s breath hitches, and the torches stop guttering.

* * *

The lightning in his limbs burns like molten iron, like it’s casting his bones in steel from the inside out. He takes a deep, fortifying breath, releases it, and doesn’t wait to see where it lands.

He doesn’t breathe again until the rim of the Caldera shrinks to nothing beneath the cloud cover.

* * *

Katara’s eyes are narrowed in hate, blue eyes like ice chips set in stone.

“You make one step backward, one slip up-” she hisses, and for a moment, all he can see is a dark figure stretching a fiery hand towards him, _and_ _pain will be your teacher._

He blinks and the moment is gone. His breath leaves him in a thin wisp of air, stolen by the howling night wind in the airy temple.

Katara’s steps echo down the stone corridor. Zuko sits heavily on the hard, cold bed, and holds his blades close to his chest, and he breathes.

* * *

Zuko can’t stop himself from throwing his arms in front of his face when the Old Masters open their maws, fire gaping at him from deep in their throats.

He has been judged and found wanting. But he has survived this once, and he will do it again.

He takes three breaths before realizing he isn’t burning, and Aang’s back on his isn’t writhing in pain, either. He dares a glance up, and the maelstrom steals the breath from his lungs before forcing it back in, the purest breath he’s ever tasted.

The fire flickers red and gold and blue and green and purple and iridescent, thrumming with the low, steady beat of the dragons’ heart.

He opens his mouth to breath in deeply, deeply, and the warmth of the dragon’s breath fills his lungs, running through the knots in his chi lines that he didn’t know he had. His arms hang loose at his sides, heat shimmering from his fingertips, and the fire around him pulsing in time with his breath.

In, and the flame spirals upwards, tugged from the core of firebending itself. Out, and it races through his chi meridians, soothing his very core, radiating warmth down to his fingertips, sparking and popping until he has become the inferno.

* * *

Zuko huddles as tightly as he can. He’s lost track of how many breaths have passed since the guards threw him in here and locked the door, but he stopped shaking a long time ago.

A breath in, drawing the frigid air into his lungs, and then out, as warmth blossoms through his limbs, shimmering in the air.

The bolts in his shirt steal the warmth from his stomach, freezing his lungs just as they begin to warm.

In, and the frost crystals hanging at the edges of his vision grow, and out, as they shrink and melt into droplets that run down his neck and back. In, as the trails of water running down his spine freeze and tug at his skin, and out until the bolts burn perfect little hexagons on his stomach.

One more breath. In, out.

One more breath.

* * *

Uncle’s back is to him. His heart hammers like an elephant-mouse in his chest, but he forces the air to leave his lungs quietly.

“Uncle-” he breathes in, “I’m sorry,” he breathes out, and Uncle has his arms wrapped tightly around him, encircling his ribs in an iron grip.

They press against corded muscle as he breathes in, and at Uncle’s, “I was never angry,” it leaves him in a whoosh and the knot in his throat loosens for the first time in a very long time.

* * *

The crowd is roaring beneath him, separated neatly into rows of green and blue and red. The layers of silks on his shoulders are heavy, and the thin sheet of metal in his topknot is even heavier, bowing his head as he rises.

He breathes from the chest as his stomach twinges, but the cool of Katara’s healing still swirls, untangling the complicated knots in his throat. Behind him, Aang is radiating calm, and the air surrounding them both stands absolutely still.

Zuko lifts its head. The crowd rumbles to a halt, holding their breath for the new Fire Lord.

He stretches out a hand, sleeve falling back to reveal an arm silvered with old scars. The wind whispers over a patch of hair on the forearm that never quite grew back.

He takes a breath, from the stomach, deep and proper. As he does, a flame flickers to life between his outstretched fingers, and in it, ribbons of green and gold and purple dance. It flares wider as he takes in the air of the new nation, colors chasing each other like children in the sun.

It's a new day.

**Author's Note:**

> "Zuko's POV" has been done a million times, but this quarantine is getting to me, man. I had to write something.
> 
> (aka I went "Zuko's not a master. He's not." would be a dope ass summary. Too bad I don't have a fic to put it on- ah shit.)


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